


american metal with a devil inside

by defcontwo



Category: Captain America (Comics)
Genre: M/M, the red booty shorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It was supposed to be a fucking joke,” Sam groans, squeezing his eyes shut and dropping his head to Steve’s shoulder. “They weren’t supposed to fit him anymore, he was gonna look ridiculous and then we were gonna laugh at him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	american metal with a devil inside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [biggrstaffbunch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/gifts).



> a very very happy palentine's day to the one and only ruchi. :D

“It was supposed to be a fucking joke,” Sam groans, squeezing his eyes shut and dropping his head to Steve’s shoulder. “They weren’t supposed to fit him anymore, he was gonna look ridiculous and then we were gonna laugh at him.” 

Steve’s shoulders shake with laughter, the soft cotton of his t-shirt shifting against Sam’s skin. Steve’s always so goddamn warm; it’s like sleeping with a furnace, always has been, and these days, the kid’s just as bad. 

“You knew this was gonna happen,” Sam mumbles into Steve’s shoulder. 

“‘Course I did,” Steve says. 

“Steve loves me in these shorts, I swear to God, nothin’ gets him harder. It’s a fucking miracle we ever got around to fightin’ a war, some days,” Bucky says. Sam just flips him off without looking up from Steve’s shoulder. 

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Steve admits, and his voice has gone all low and rough and unmistakably fond, and it seems ridiculous that this should work, all three of them in tandem, but Sam guesses that having a real big, soft heart was always kind of in the Captain America job description. 

Sam lifts his head up from Steve’s shoulder to take the sight of Bucky in. It was Sam who found those maroon red booty shorts stuffed in the back of the closet and it was Sam’s idea to talk Bucky into trying them on although come to think of it, Bucky didn’t exactly need a whole lot of convincing to do it, so maybe he should’ve taken that as a warning sign. 

Now, Bucky’s got a smirk curling around the edges of his lips as he stands there in bright booty shorts and dog tags and not a single stitch else, the small shorts stretching obscenely across his thighs but still, somehow, miraculously staying on. He’s got to have gained however many fucking pounds since he last went around in those shorts on a regular basis but the effect of it, the red fabric stretching across hard muscle and leaving nothing to the imagination, is less like a good joke and more like the best fucking porno Sam’s ever seen. He swallows hard. 

“So, Cap,” Bucky drawls, like the fucking asshole he is, “now that you’ve got me in ‘em, what are you gonna do with me?” 

“Who are you talking to?” Sam asks. 

Bucky makes like he’s hooking his fingers through invisible belt loops and just winds up pulling the hemline of the shorts down a tantalizing inch or so, rocking back and forth on the balls of his bare feet. “Well, I ain’t talking to myself, _Cap_.” 

Sam likes being Captain America. He’s good at it, better than he thought he’d be in his smallest, darkest moments of self-doubt and most days, it’s a real settled thing, an extension of himself that falls on his shoulders as easy as anything else he’s taken on for himself, but still, it’s funny how that word, Cap, never sounds quite as right as it does on Bucky’s tongue. 

That’s another part of the job description, probably: a hopeless, boundless soft spot for James Buchanan Barnes. 

Sam catches Steve’s eye; Steve shrugs and makes an ‘after you’ motion with his hand, so Sam pushes off from the kitchen counter and strides forward until there’s barely any space at all between him and Bucky. Sam reaches out and hooks a finger through Bucky’s dog tags, drawing them closer together, his other hand falling to Bucky’s hip, thumb digging into the space between Bucky’s hipbone and the hemline of the shorts. 

Bucky looks up at him through his eyelashes, brown eyes gone dark and intent. “So, what do you say, Cap?” 

Sam rocks forward, and it’s a painful fucking thing, how they’re not there yet, not there yet, but still so, so fucking close to it. “Don’t worry about it, Buck. Looks like I’m the man with the plan.”


End file.
